Dear Diary,
Last time I wrote to you, Dear Diary, I was telling you about how Ol’ Dumbfeck Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d got his nose stuck in The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s thong and how his scrawny body was doing all sorts of things wot aren’t nice in daylight, at least if’n you’re built like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. ‘Course, this got all the biddies wot was standing in the queue waiting to get on the bus (namely me, just in case you’re not paying attention) all excited and two of them, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, even went so far as to up and fall down dead as mice after they’ve been flushed down the toilet. I know you’re wanting to know about who these two biddies are, on account of I’ve never mentioned ‘em before, but when I tell you you’ll end up asking me why I didn’t shut up and mind my own business. Some people are better when you’ve never heard of them, and these two are examples. And to prove my point, let me just say that Miss Parsley Da Onker lived all alone in her little concrete bunker bungalow without a family or even any friends, on account of she’d managed to bore ‘em all to death. ‘Course, you could say that after they all kicked the bucket of their own volition rather’n hafta sit through another day in her company, she did all right by Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, as well as (it must be said) The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury Fancy-Titbits Cat Food Company. At last count, the ones she forced to die rather’n see her again included her mama and papa and all eleven brothers and twenty-seven sisters and all their children, numbering in all eight thousand forty-twelve. Fortunately for her husband and his health, she never actually had one. For that to happen she would’a had to force a man to get down on his knees and carry her over to Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum in order to make an honest woman of her. What I didn’t say was that she did oblige thirty or thirty-two men to go so far as sinking on to their knees, but thirty of ‘em managed to get up again and run off into the woods before she could put the words “will you marry me” into their mouths. The other two unfortunately died of boredom before they could make their escapes. These two were also carted off to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and eventually over to The Gnu-Fanny Fancy-Pansy Cat Food Company where they ended up flavouring the ‘Old Salt Fishy Variety’ of economy-sized tins. They was both fishermen, but you probably already guessed it on account of their special seasoning.
Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous were the other one wot died from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose getting stuck in the cleavage down at The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s other end. She had wot they called special sensitivity on top of being even more boring than Miss Parsley Da Onker. She were also Greek, which is a puzzle considering she were born on the island and her mother was the Misses Purdy, or at least one of them. They never knew themselves which one’d spewed her out, but I guess that’s only natural when you is conjoined triples and your left hand don’t know wot your right hand is doing. By the way, you remember, don’t you, Dear Diary, on how they always insisted on being called Siamese Triplets instead of a conjoined trilogy as some folks’d prefer, at least in public. The sisters Purdy themselves didn’t mind being called freaks but they minded more’n you could say being thought of as local yokels and hicks and inbreds. “Better to be Siamese and exotic than feckin’ idiots,” is wot they always said. And I’ve gotta agree with ‘em, I guess, but then I’m a bus and’ll never be called either a freak or a moron. Anyway, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous survived having Siamese triplet mothers and growed up as Greek as a bottle of olive oil and as pretty as you please. ‘Course, seeing as she were a foreigner even though she’d never been off of the island any more’n her ancestors had, she couldn’t get a husband, not with all the sober ones either married off or wanting to marry a ginger. In the end there was nothing for it but to tell everybody she’d up and married a Greek potato farmer wot’d died of the blight on their wedding night. That way she could call herself ‘Missus’ and not hafta worry about all the other shite wot usually goes with the title. ‘Course, she was always afeared someone’d find out she was a liar liar pants on fire, and so she never ever left her house, not even to pick up her milk on her doorstep. That is, until she decided ‘What the Hell’ and accepted the invitation to go on my farewell tour of the island. Guess she thought she was safe after all these years and nobody’d remember wot she looked like. It was just her luck that she had to go and see Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s exit hole. Having never seen anything like it in her life, there was nothing she could do but drop down dead. I’m not sure wot flavour cat food her corpus delicious’ll make, but at least it won’t taste used like the other old biddies.
Anyway, when Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous fell over dead we couldn’t just leave ‘em in the middle of the road and drive off, could we? Well, I suppose we could’ve, and certainly nobody would’a cared much either way, but Missus Drain, who is nothing if not a decent human being (which is why nobody except me says anything nice about her), got on her mobile phone and called up Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days before douches came in fruit-flavoured multi-packs. ‘Course, the entire police force, being the two I’ve just mentioned, was after having their breakfast over at Thelma O’Leary’s Little Falling Down Café at the time, but they said they’d be with us in a coupl’a hours. After all, it wasn’t as if the two wot died were in a hurry to get anywhere. That made me laugh, but not the biddies, who take death serious.
‘Course this all happened yesterday, but I’m gonna pretend we’re going through it today and in the here and now. That being the case, I’m gonna put away my pencil and pretend to take a nap until the police force arrives to scoop up Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous off of the pavement and take ‘em away to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’. As I always say, so endeth this latest bunch of news, and I’ll be back soon.
Last time I wrote to you, Dear Diary, I was telling you about how Ol’ Dumbfeck Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d got his nose stuck in The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s thong and how his scrawny body was doing all sorts of things wot aren’t nice in daylight, at least if’n you’re built like Misther Patchouli Da Fanny. ‘Course, this got all the biddies wot was standing in the queue waiting to get on the bus (namely me, just in case you’re not paying attention) all excited and two of them, namely Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous, even went so far as to up and fall down dead as mice after they’ve been flushed down the toilet. I know you’re wanting to know about who these two biddies are, on account of I’ve never mentioned ‘em before, but when I tell you you’ll end up asking me why I didn’t shut up and mind my own business. Some people are better when you’ve never heard of them, and these two are examples. And to prove my point, let me just say that Miss Parsley Da Onker lived all alone in her little concrete bunker bungalow without a family or even any friends, on account of she’d managed to bore ‘em all to death. ‘Course, you could say that after they all kicked the bucket of their own volition rather’n hafta sit through another day in her company, she did all right by Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’, as well as (it must be said) The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury Fancy-Titbits Cat Food Company. At last count, the ones she forced to die rather’n see her again included her mama and papa and all eleven brothers and twenty-seven sisters and all their children, numbering in all eight thousand forty-twelve. Fortunately for her husband and his health, she never actually had one. For that to happen she would’a had to force a man to get down on his knees and carry her over to Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum in order to make an honest woman of her. What I didn’t say was that she did oblige thirty or thirty-two men to go so far as sinking on to their knees, but thirty of ‘em managed to get up again and run off into the woods before she could put the words “will you marry me” into their mouths. The other two unfortunately died of boredom before they could make their escapes. These two were also carted off to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and eventually over to The Gnu-Fanny Fancy-Pansy Cat Food Company where they ended up flavouring the ‘Old Salt Fishy Variety’ of economy-sized tins. They was both fishermen, but you probably already guessed it on account of their special seasoning.
Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous were the other one wot died from the sight of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose getting stuck in the cleavage down at The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s other end. She had wot they called special sensitivity on top of being even more boring than Miss Parsley Da Onker. She were also Greek, which is a puzzle considering she were born on the island and her mother was the Misses Purdy, or at least one of them. They never knew themselves which one’d spewed her out, but I guess that’s only natural when you is conjoined triples and your left hand don’t know wot your right hand is doing. By the way, you remember, don’t you, Dear Diary, on how they always insisted on being called Siamese Triplets instead of a conjoined trilogy as some folks’d prefer, at least in public. The sisters Purdy themselves didn’t mind being called freaks but they minded more’n you could say being thought of as local yokels and hicks and inbreds. “Better to be Siamese and exotic than feckin’ idiots,” is wot they always said. And I’ve gotta agree with ‘em, I guess, but then I’m a bus and’ll never be called either a freak or a moron. Anyway, as I started to say before I interrupted myself, Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous survived having Siamese triplet mothers and growed up as Greek as a bottle of olive oil and as pretty as you please. ‘Course, seeing as she were a foreigner even though she’d never been off of the island any more’n her ancestors had, she couldn’t get a husband, not with all the sober ones either married off or wanting to marry a ginger. In the end there was nothing for it but to tell everybody she’d up and married a Greek potato farmer wot’d died of the blight on their wedding night. That way she could call herself ‘Missus’ and not hafta worry about all the other shite wot usually goes with the title. ‘Course, she was always afeared someone’d find out she was a liar liar pants on fire, and so she never ever left her house, not even to pick up her milk on her doorstep. That is, until she decided ‘What the Hell’ and accepted the invitation to go on my farewell tour of the island. Guess she thought she was safe after all these years and nobody’d remember wot she looked like. It was just her luck that she had to go and see Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s nose stuck up The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s exit hole. Having never seen anything like it in her life, there was nothing she could do but drop down dead. I’m not sure wot flavour cat food her corpus delicious’ll make, but at least it won’t taste used like the other old biddies.
Anyway, when Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous fell over dead we couldn’t just leave ‘em in the middle of the road and drive off, could we? Well, I suppose we could’ve, and certainly nobody would’a cared much either way, but Missus Drain, who is nothing if not a decent human being (which is why nobody except me says anything nice about her), got on her mobile phone and called up Police Constable Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Police Constable Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days before douches came in fruit-flavoured multi-packs. ‘Course, the entire police force, being the two I’ve just mentioned, was after having their breakfast over at Thelma O’Leary’s Little Falling Down Café at the time, but they said they’d be with us in a coupl’a hours. After all, it wasn’t as if the two wot died were in a hurry to get anywhere. That made me laugh, but not the biddies, who take death serious.
‘Course this all happened yesterday, but I’m gonna pretend we’re going through it today and in the here and now. That being the case, I’m gonna put away my pencil and pretend to take a nap until the police force arrives to scoop up Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous off of the pavement and take ‘em away to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’. As I always say, so endeth this latest bunch of news, and I’ll be back soon.
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